


Endgame

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Landel's: Damned (LJ Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Military, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't always about winning, but some people can't take losing anyway. The military coup and its aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endgame

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Endgame  
> Author: Zalia  
> Word Count: 4223  
> Rating: R  
> Character(s): Martin Landel, Alec Doyle, Marc/Rebel  
> Pairing(s): Alec/Martin, Alec/Marc, Martin/Marc  
> Summary: It isn't always about winning, but some people can't take losing anyway. The military coup and its aftermath.  
> Warnings for: mentions of sex, somewhat dark plot

“Cigarette?”

A curl of smoke escapes Alec's lips, upturned in the lazy smile that Martin has not seen in years. The familiarity does not make it at all reassuring. He knows Alec better than most, better than anyone, and he knows what that subtly inviting expression is capable of hiding.

He takes the offered cigarette; a slim black thing which sits between his lips like gunpowder, rich and dark and Alec holds out a silver lighter, the flame steady in the still air. Martin stoops, presses the tip of the cigarette to the flame and takes that first drag, pulling the smoke into his lungs like a prayer.

“This stuff will kill you, you know?” he says as he exhales, matching Alec smirk for smirk, white teeth and lies.

Alec laughs, blood trickling down from the corner of his lips, staining the cigarette paper a darker black. “Hardly my main concern right now.”

“No,” Martin says, settling into the chair opposite him, “I suppose it wouldn't be.”

\----------

Marc's clothes do not fit him well. The boy (the naïve crusading optimism makes him seem so young) is a little shorter than him, but broader around the shoulders, like maybe in his past life as law abiding member of society he'd hit up the gym. Or maybe he's just built like that. Not much opportunity for going to the gym when you're on the run, although that could be considered its own workout. The point is that the shirts hang loose on him, and he misses the crisp outline of a good suit. Wearing this makes him feel like, well, one of their lot, the ragtag group of hippies and malcontents who claim to want what is right without thought for what is practical.

The shelter is a hovel of a place, dark and dismal and with the lingering scent of despair hanging around. He looks around it with scorn that he doesn't even bother to conceal. “Reduced to this, eh, Alec?” he mutters as he steps inside, the darkness creeping around him like grasping fingers.

“Not much of a choice when you're on the run,” Marc says sourly as he shoves past, arms full of supplies and radio equipment. His tone makes it clear who exactly is to blame for that and Martin ignores it blithely. If he's expecting remorse then he's obviously deluded and Martin has never been that kind of Doctor.

“He made his own choice,” Martin replies as they head deeper into the darkness, the air thick with dust. “I've no sympathy for someone who chooses this kind of life.”

Even in the dim light, he can see the way that the poor boy's shoulders go taut at that, the set of his posture changing. “Some people have a conscience,” he says, the bite of delicious anger in his voice already. Really, if he keeps that up then he'll be no fun at all.

“And you really believe that he was one of them?”

Marc rounds on him, eyes flashing dangerously. Martin has seen worse every day in the Institute. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I thought that it was fairly obvious what I meant,” Martin replies. “All of this hero worship. Did he tell you that he cared?”  
He relishes the way that Marc's cheeks heat at that comment, licks his lips. One of Alec's through and through. He always did manage to make people love him against their better instincts. “He was a good man. He did the right thing,” Marc hisses.

Martin smirks, an unpleasant expression. “The only reason he could exploit the system so well is because he created half of it,” he points out, rather reasonably in his opinion. He isn't above giving credit where credit was due, especially when Marc's face twists in the most interesting of ways.

“People change,” Marc says, expression darkening.

“Yes, they do,” Martin says, his smile becoming, for a moment, perhaps a little wistful. “And that is why it's so very foolish to trust them.”

\----------

The night stretches out interminably once the radio broadcast has been made and Martin can only wonder if this is how it felt for those unfortunate souls in the Institute; long periods of boredom liberally interspersed with moments of intense paranoia. Marc's hand strays to the gun at his hip more than once, although hesitantly and Martin has to wonder whether he's ever used it on a living thing before of if it's all been in a shooting range; paper targets which don't bleed and spatter fragments of flesh and bone over you when you hit them.

He wonders if that's why the threats towards him have been so hollow.

“What do you do to while away the long nights?” Martin asks sounding utterly bored.

Marc glares at him, leaning back on the small bed that was never supposed to be shared. He supposes it doesn't matter. He doesn't need much sleep these days. “Wait. It isn't a job for the impatient.”

Martin rolls his eyes, fingers twitching. He wishes he had a cigarette. He's wanted one ever since they moved into the bunker. “You must do something. Read a book. Write morbid poetry about your love for Byronic anti-heroes like you seem to believe he was.”

“Do you think I have the space to carry books around with me?” Marc asks scornfully.

“Alright, no books, no diaries and I doubt you can pick up the latest music channels with this equipment. Masturbation then.”

He thinks that Marc might choke on his own tongue and watches with fascination and his expression shifts through a multitude of expressions one by one. “You're sick,” Marc says finally, settling on disgust.

“Oh come now,” Martin says smoothly, that warm, personable voice that he uses on concerned relatives and people who might invest money, “we're both adults. It's just a natural human function.”

“We aren't talking about this,” Marc says sharply. He lies back on the bed, closing his eyes firmly, as though that will somehow drown out Martin's words.

They stay in silence for several moments, Marc's breath starting to even out. Not quite sleep, not yet, but as restful as Martin has seen him outside. He wonders if it's trust or just exhaustion.  
“It isn't a weakness to deal with your needs,” he says just at the moment when he knows Marc has started to think he won't speak again.

Marc growls softly, opening one eye to glare at him. “If you need some time with your right hand, the bathroom is over there.”

“Left hand, actually,” Martin says smugly. “Really, for a rebel, you're remarkably squeamish about things. It can't be healthy.”

“I'm not squeamish. I just have better things to th- we are not having this conversation!” he repeats, muttering something undoubtedly uncomplimentary under his breath.

They lapse into uncompanionable silence, Marc laying stiffly on the bed, obviously not asleep, while Martin sinks into his own thoughts.

It is Marc who broke the silence finally. About time too. It was getting rather dull.

“He talked about you, you know?” he says quietly, as though hoping that Martin will not hear. Ah but if that is true, then why speak at all? Marc has been trying so hard to prove that he cares nothing for Martin's company. But Martin can see it in his eyes. The boy is gregarious and not much cut out for long stretches of lonely wandering and isolation. That's what you get for trying to change the system though, and if nothing else, Marc is dedicated. Whether his dedication is to the cause or to the person however, that remains to be seen.

“Really?” Martin says, and can't quite hide the genuine curiosity which seeps into his voice. Alec's opinions had always been a topic of some fascination for him. “Nothing complimentary I'm sure.”

“He thought you were a fool.”

“I thought much the same of him so I suppose we're even.”

“For what? Going against you?” Marc sneers, pushing himself up on his elbows to better look at Martin. “Not everyone agrees with your methods, old man.”

Martin arches one eyebrow at the weak insult. “Not at all. I consider him a fool for giving up on a project before its completion. And we were the same age.”

“Some projects should never have been started.”

Martin snorts derisively. “Every great advancement of humanity has required sacrifice. He would have agreed with me.”

“You wish.”

“I know. He was never a saint.”

“He was a good man,” Marc replies sharply.

Dear lord, it's like Lydia all over again, and the thought curls warm in his belly. Alec is gone, but he does like his legacies, doesn't he? Martin lets the words hang in the air between them, taut and heavy. “How long did you know him for?” he asks finally. “A year? Two?”

“I listened to his broadcasts since he started making them,” Marc says defensively. “He opened my eyes to how the world really is.”

Ah, a believer, invested in a fallen messiah. It was rather pitiable really. “Even a good man is still just a man and Alec had more failings than most. How long did you really know him for? Personally, I mean.” He isn't letting Marc squirm out of the question that easily.

“Why do you need to know?” Marc asks, sounding tired.

“I'm curious and it isn't as though we have many other activities available to us since I assume you aren't interested in sex as a suitable passtime.”

“Not with you,” he says sharply, turning that delightful shade of humiliated once again. It really is attractive on him, Martin thinks absently.

“Then what can it hurt? Alec is gone. I hardly think this is a matter which could be damaging to the security of your rag tag band of naïve revolutionaries.”

It makes him scowl. He does it such a lot. “I met _Jack_ a few months ago,” he says reluctantly, “before you murdered him.”

“Well, naturally,” Martin replies blithely. “You don't look the type to enjoy a little light necrophilia.”

“Why the fuck do I bother?” Marc asks, flopping back down on the bed. “You have a sick mind, even beyond the obvious.”

“If I'm sure a problem for you, then shoot me,” he says, spreading his arms wide. In such a confined space, the gesture leaves him open and vulnerable, a point blank shot. “I'm here and unarmed. One shot and all your problems could be over. Oh wait... I think you have rather bigger problems than myself right now, much as it galls me to admit it.”

“Fuck you,” Marc growls, then closes his eyes and rolls over, feigning sleep for long enough that it does eventually become sleep in truth.

Martin watches him as he relaxes, face softening, lips parted. He feels that gaze on his back, between his shoulder blades and does not turn around. “You certainly have a type,” he says.

“And what would that be?” comes the reply in a voice that he is almost certain is real.

He snorts softly, moving to perch on the edge of the bed, touching the boy's cheek lightly. He doesn't stir. “Naive. Idealistic. Easily entranced by pretty words and the promise of something bigger than themselves.”

“You including yourself in that?” comes the amused response.

“Not anymore,” Martin replies. “I grew up. Maybe he will too.”

“You can't have this one, Martin,” is the response, the barest flicker of anger in the air between them as Martin's fingers graze Marc's lips.

“Oh?” Martin replies, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. There won't be anyone there. There never is. “You care so little for your pets. Why shouldn't I take care of them if you won't?”

“You always see people as toys. Not everyone is like you.”

“You were once,” Martin says coolly.

“I changed.”

“Not that much,” Martin says. “Did you ever tell him who came up with the idea of the Institute back when it was just a formless project no-one had the imagination or the balls to attempt?”

“Need to know basis.”

“Of course,” Martin says, smirking as his hand comes to rest against Marc's throat. He could just squeeze and the temptation is there to see how he would react. “And none of your disciples needed to know. Especially poor dear Rebel. It would be a pity to shatter that love for you with an ugly truth. After all, it's such a convenient emotion to manipulate.”

“Why shatter his illusions? It would just hurt him.”

“For someone who seems so intent on delivering the truth, you lie an awful lot.”

There is no response, and when Martin turns, the space behind him is empty.

\----------

Marc leaves the bunker late the next day to see if he can pick up any messages, and when he returns his face is pale and drawn, and his eyes hollow. He leans against the wall, forehead pressed against it, hiding his face. He looks like a man condemned and for the first time, Martin feels a spark of concern about their situation.

“What happened?” he asks, stirring from his seat near the radio equipment.

Marc looks up slowly, a dark expression on his face. “Don't you ever sleep?”

“Not when my current ally walks in looking like he just saw a platoon of soldiers heading to his location.”

“We aren't allies!” Marc snarls, rounding on him. “Get it through your thick skull. You're just more use alive than dead right now.”

He could say something now, about enemies of enemies, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut and as predicted, Marc fills in the blanks for him. “They're dead,” he says more quietly, closing his eyes again. “My allies, my _friends_. That bastard Aguilar is using his prisoners against us.”

Ah. That was... a little concerning, Martin had to admit. Who knew better than he what some of the patients were capable of? It was a clever move though. Difficult to want to help the people who were killing you, even under duress.

It's a calculated move when he lays his hand against Marc's shoulder, but perhaps the sympathy in his voice isn't entirely feigned. “For what it is worth, I'm sorry. I didn't realise that they would use the facility in such a way.”  
The man sighs and shakes his head, shoulders slumping tiredly. “For once, it isn't your fault.”

“Will you broadcast tonight?” Martin asks, his grip tightening on Marc's shoulder, just that bit beyond reassuring and into something else.

“If I have to,” Marc replies, voice muffled by the sleeves of his jacket, head bowed. He looks exhausted. “This doesn't change anything.”

“No,” Martin says quietly, “it doesn't.”

Marc peers at him, a sideways look, his eyes shadowed by distress that he can't keep hidden. “You aren't supposed to be supportive,” he says suspiciously.

Martin shrugs. “My apologies. I'll be sure to bring out the scathing comments any time now.”

It makes Marc laugh, a soft snort of not-quite amusement that sounds more like a sob. “Asshole.”

“I'm not entirely without human compassion,” Martin replies. “And I don't feel particularly kindly towards the military.” He'd rather like to see them taken down, even if just to regain his rightful place.

“You're supposed to be a monster,” Marc replies, voice rough with stress. It's a very appealing sound.

“I'm sure I am,” Martin says, leaning closer, his breath ghosting across the boy's lips. There's a moment when he knows that it could end in violence and anger, but the moment slips away, hazy as a dream when their lips meet, warm and so very inviting.

Marc pulls away after a moment, a moment too long, one might say, and stares at him, licking his lips with an expression that Martin can only categorise as nervous. “What is this supposed to be?” he asks, his voice husky in a way that is entirely unintentional and all the sweeter for it.

And Martin smiles and smooths his thumb against the sharp cheekbone. “Whatever you want it to be, nothing more.”

“I want...” Marc swallows thickly, and his next words are lost against Martin's lips.

\----------

There's a chess board on the table in front of Alec, the white pieces thinned considerably. The Queen is gone laid aside, and a bishop lies cracked on the table next to the board.

“You always were prone to gratuitous symbolism, Alec,” Martin says, smirking as he takes a seat, observing the board curiously. The black Queen has a deep gouge where an eye should be. Martin snorts and looks back up at his companion.

“Everything has a place.”

Martin shrugs. Alec had always been prone to riddles and crypticisms even while alive so what can he expect from a dream? “Which one is he?” Martin asks, gesturing to the board which twists and flickers beneath his hand, pieces moving, changing, like light through a fractured glass.

“Do you care?” Alec asks, curiosity and amusement flickering in his eyes. Martin's lips purse at the insinuation.

“I have an interest.”

Alec laughs, that smoke and scotch laugh that feels like fingernails raking down his spine.

\----------

The scent of tobacco is thick and cloying in the bunker, and Martin relishes the taste of it on his tongue. He recognises the brand, of course he does. His brand, stashed away in an old tin box along with a few bits of useless paper containing out of date codes. Still, Alec's death is his gain and he smokes now, laid back on the narrow bed while the smoke curls upwards. “How long have you been a bleeding heart?” he asks, turning to watch as Marc pulls on his jeans, that tanned skin disappearing beneath denim.

Marc turns, the bruises from bite marks visible along his jaw and how can Martin help but look smug at the sight? He's silent for a long while before he answers. “My father is in the military, someone high up,” he says eventually, uncertainty obvious on his face. “I was groomed to follow him,” he adds.

Well, that's a little disappointing really, Martin admits. He sits up, letting the sheet slide down his body to pool around his hips. “What was it? Daddy was never proud of you? Never went to your football games?” He can't keep the sneer from his voice. It's so... Hollywood.

Marc blinks, looks surprised and oh so young. Almost enough to make Martin feel guilty. “No. Nothing like that. I was the model son. He was the model father.”

“Then?”

“I'm better than him.”

Heat flares in Martin's eyes. Now that is far more interesting. The hint of arrogance in Marc's eyes, the confidence and conviction. This is more than some little boy's cry for attention. This has _potential_.

Marc snorts and turns away. “You look like you're getting ideas,” he says, and he doesn't pull away as Martin wraps his arms around him, stroking over his stomach.

“I'm hardly going to deny that. It would ruin my reputation,” Martin says, grinning as his teeth graze over Marc's shoulder, making the younger man shiver delightfully beneath his fingers.

“I have things to do,” Marc says, but makes no effort to pull away.

“Liar,” Martin says. “For someone so intent on delivering the truth, you do lie to yourself a lot.”

He can feel the moment when Marc submits, the tension leaking from his body as he leans back and lets himself be pulled down onto the bed, Martin sliding on top of him.

\----------

Marc sleeps like the damned, a curious habit for a soldier and a rebel, but useful for Martin.  
He finds it in the small pile of Marc's belongings, wrapped in a scrap of cloth and shoved in the lining of his jacket where he'd obviously hoped that no-one would find it.

Dogtags. They always seemed to hold a curious sentimentality for soldiers, one that Martin couldn't quite understand. Letting your identity be stripped to a name and a number and carrying it around on a string.

Good for him though.

The tag rests cold on his palm.

 _Andrew Marc Aguilar._

\----------

“So this is how you spend the afterlife,” Martin says, leaning back against the cool leather chair, “playing games.”

“It seems fitting,” Alec replies with a shrug. “It's what we did when I was alive.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Difficult to play games without an opponent,” he points out.

Alec smiles enigmatically. It makes Martin want to punch him. “Do you know what happens when a pawn reaches the end of the board?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his finger on one white pawn, a single square away from the black side of the board. Martin hadn't noticed it before, isn't sure how. It makes his heart soar and his stomach sink all at once.

Alec pushes the piece forward.

\----------

There's an electric crackle in the air and Marc hasn't stopped pacing once. It's a small shelter. There isn't a lot of room for pacing and it's driving Martin half insane sitting here and waiting for nightfall, watching Marc walk the same five steps back and forth time and time again. It would give him a headache if he didn't already have one. The charge in the air is getting to him. He rubs his temples tiredly.

He isn't pre-cognitive; it's one of the powers he'd never had much interest in, but it doesn't take a power like that to tell that something is coming. Around nightfall he'd say. Just a hunch.

“What is your band of incompetents planning?” he asks, resisting the urge to tug Marc down and damn the world for a while.

Marc glances back and there's something wild in his eyes, something that makes Martin shiver. He isn't sure that he likes the sensation. “Need to know basis,” he says, and the chill grows worse.

It's near nightfall when Marc throws himself down on the bed, eyes closed, a mass of nervous energy desperate to be set free. An odd sense of camaraderie prompts Martin to lie down beside him. He has a feeling that after tonight, their odd interlude will be coming to an end. He's developed a sense for these things.

“I know I was a pawn, you know?” Marc says quietly, resting his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh?” Martin says. “Very astute. Most people are utterly convinced that they are rooks or knights of queens.” He's seen it so many times, people who drastically overestimate their worth. And where are they now?

Marc sighs. “He talked about you, you know?” he says, a shattered note in his voice.

“So I recall you saying,” Martin replies, feeling a little like he's living in a scratched record.

“Mmm?” Marc says, frowning a little, a confused look . “Yeah, I said that didn't I?” He falls silent as though he has forgotten his intentions. “He talked about you. He was obsessed,” Marc says. “And every time he did I knew that I was just a pawn in this game between you.”

It is Martin's turn to frown, a sickly expression that curdles in his gut. He is sure that if he looks over at the radio equipment, he'll see that figure there, knows it like he knows the taste of the cigarettes that he hasn't smoked since yesterday but the scent lingers in the room nonetheless.

Marc turns to him, and there's a devil-light burning in his eyes. “But I followed anyway because... what else could I do. Do you know what happens when a pawn reaches the end of the board?”

Martin sighs and leans their foreheads together and for a moment, perhaps, he feels regret. Marc gives him a startled look but smiles, kissing him and pulling him close.

Night falls.

There is no lightning. No crash of thunder. The bunker is eerily calm, like the eye of a hurricane.

Marc pulls away and reaches for a packet of cigarettes.

He has never smoked before.

Martin sits up and pinches the bridge of his nose as the smoke curls around them. He almost stands and leave now, before he has to hear that familiar voice twisted to whiskey and tobacco. He doesn't.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

There's a soft laugh and when he catches Marc's eyes, there is no trace of naivety or innocence.

Martin sighs. “Hello Alec.”


End file.
